The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  “That’s it?” asked Fisher, skepticism in his tone.

  Mattis cast a glance over his shoulder. Senator Pitt was still huddled in a corner, talking in hushed whispers to someone he presumed to be the President of the United States—or someone else. He had a worried look on his face and the call was taking way longer than it should. Either the President could not be convinced, or…

  “I understand, Captain Fisher,” said Mattis. “I know this is a hard sell to all of you, asking you to risk your ships, your lives, for an unclear objective in the face of overwhelming odds. All I can promise you is”—he kept his eyes on Senator Pitt—“there’s more to this than we initially suspected.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Abramova.

  “Aye aye,” said Fisher. “We’re with you, sir.”

  “Acknowledged,” said the captain of the Spearway.

  There was dead air as everyone waited for the captain of the Able to report.

  “I’m with you,” he said finally.

  Then it was settled. “Very well. We’re beginning our Z-space translations. All ships to follow, and be prepared to engage the moment we enter real-space. Come into it kicking and screaming. We want to capitalize on the element of surprise as much as we can.”

  Everyone on the line signaled their acknowledgement, and then Lynch spoke up.

  “Sir, we are beginning our Z-space translation.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Mattis, as the multihued spectrum of Z-space began to give way to its real equivalent. The bright lights vanished, and the moon Ganymede suddenly appeared before them, a small body of blue and grey. Behind it loomed the massive striped sphere of Jupiter. Mattis had never really appreciated just how massive the gas giant was until he was, metaphorically, standing right in front of it. Even at this distance, it dwarfed Ganymede in their sight.

  The radar screen lit up. Eleven ships, red dots on the screen, firing streams of projectiles down to Ganymede’s surface.

  “Scramble all fighters,” said Mattis. “And engage targets of opportunity.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Pilot’s Ready Room

  USS Midway

  “Raise.” Guano threw a handful of coins into the center of the table. “C’mon, Frost. Show me you have some balls.”

  Frost whimpered, her fingers hovering over a card, then another, then back to the first. “Hang on, hang on…”

  “Raise, call, or fold,” said Guano, affixing her most withering poker face on her last remaining opponent. “You know how the game’s played.”

  Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Finally, Frost laid down her cards. “Fold,” she said, reluctantly showing her cards. Nine of hearts straight through the five of hearts.

  Was Frost joking? The whole table erupted into laughter. Guano cackled along energetically, fanning out her cards and laying them on the table. Two black aces, two black eights, and a joker. “You folded a straight flush, you moron! Hah, I’m going to enjoy spending all this.”

  Suddenly, the laughter died out. Everyone was staring at her.

  “What?”

  “Aces and Eights,” said Joker, sitting back in her chair, blinking in shock. She looked at the cards like they were a grenade with the pin out. “The Dead Man’s Hand.”

  “The…what?” Guano asked.

  Frost’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “The Dead Man’s Hand,” she said. “Eight and ace of spades, eight and ace of clubs, plus a hole card. It’s the hand that Wild Bill Hickok was holding when he was murdered.” Frost glanced to all the players in turn, then finally Guano. “It means you’re going to die. Within the day.”

  Guano snorted dismissively, poking a finger at the joker card. “Surely that means that Joker’s going to buy the farm,” she said. “I mean, it’s right there, joker. Plain as day.”

  “No way,” said Joker, shaking her head emphatically. “Believe me, as the official Joker on this boat, I can tell you officially: the joker card represents the fool, which frankly, is Frost. Look at how easily she folded. She’s an idiot who can barely shoot straight.”

  “What?” shrieked Frost, suddenly turning her attention back to Guano. “The joker card symbolizes a literal wild card. Given how you’ve been flying lately, and what happened to Flatline, you’re the wildest card of all.” Frost repeated herself for emphasis. “It means you.”

  Fucking superstitious idiots. Guano started scooping up her coins. “You’re both just deflecting.”

  “I’m not going to die,” said Frost, although there was just a tiny tremor in her voice when she spoke. Everyone knew how superstitious the pilot was. “It… It’s going to be fine. It’s one of you two. Not me.”

  Roadie stuck his head around the corner. “Okay, losers,” he said, “it’s time. Last briefing before we head out.”

  Joker groaned audibly. “But sir, we already know what we’re doing.” She shook her head. “Nah. We should skip it. It’s bad luck, after Guano dealt herself the Dead Man’s Hand.”

  “I wasn’t the dealer!” she protested. “That was Frost!”

  Roadie scowled right at her. “Guano, you dipshit, did you get yourself dealt the Dead Man’s Hand?”

  “It wasn’t me!” she said again.

  “Every one of you idiots, inside.” Roadie ducked back into the briefing room.

  Everyone got up and made their way inside. Guano finished stuffing her pockets with coins and then, wealthier but downhearted, she stared at her cards.

  “Just a stupid game,” she muttered, and flipped them all over before she headed to the briefing room.

  All the pilots and crew had gone over this exact briefing again and again and again. Guano was sick of hearing it, but finally, after nearly three days of being in space, this was it. The last briefing.

  Yet, despite it all, Roadie went over all the details one more time.

  “As many of you know,” Roadie said, “the AO has changed from high Earth orbit to Ganymede.” This change made it easier for her to pay attention. “But the engagement is still the same. Ten light cruisers, one heavy. Four frigates on our side, and the Midway.”

  She tapped her foot impatiently and tried not to think about if Flatline was going to be there or not. Roadie hadn’t assigned her a new gunner yet, which was a good sign, but it might also mean she wasn’t going to participate at all.

  Roadie droned on. “Combat launches will be the order of the day. We will launch in three waves, designated Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Don’t get mixed up. Stay off the radio unless you need it. And for God’s sake, call your targets. We expect a lot of fighting here. Four friendly frigates will be launching their own strike craft, plus we’ll be deploying the additional Warbirds we picked up as decoys. They have no pilots in them, just autopilot, and you don’t need me to tell you that robots can’t fly for shit. Not to mention, of course, our enemy—the aliens are very likely to give everything they have. This is going to be a massive furball, ladies and gentlemen, with a lot of distractions, contacts, and friendlies, so bring your A game.”

  She’d already planned to. Didn’t she always plan to?

  “One more thing,” said Roadie offhandedly. “Some of you might know that Lieutenant Deshawn Wiley got himself shot, and despite what you might be thinking, it wasn’t by me. Well, I have some news about him that might be of interest to you. Or not. I dunno.”

  Guano sat upright, her back like a rod. Flatline? He was okay?

  Roadie raised his voice. “Get your black ass in here, Flatline, so we can loudly berate you.”

  Wild cheering filled the room as Flatline, his foot heavily bandaged, limped inside, arms held high like a triumphant boxer. Everyone crowded him, dispensing insults, compliments, and boyish claps on the shoulders and back. “The king is back, baby,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Two heart attacks and going strong.”

  Frost leaned close to Guano. “Which one of us is the fool again?”

  Would they just shut up? Guano silenced her with a death glare, and
then patted the seat next to her. “It’s a good thing you don’t need your feet to shoot your guns,” she said, talking over the laughter. “We were going to replace you with a robot. One beep for shoot left, two beeps for shoot right, and a bonus: a lot less talkative.”

  Flatline slid into his seat, groaning softly, regarding her with a cheeky grin. “You missed me, Guano. Admit it.”

  “No.” Guano casually picked at her fingernails. “Gunners are a dime a dozen, you know. Washed-up pilots who couldn’t hack it at a stick.”

  He laughed, thumping her in the shoulder. “Yeah, you missed me. I heard you ran all the way to the infirmary, crying and shit, tried to fight a bunch of the nurses like some kind of jackass.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Say please,” said Flatline, grinning and putting his arms behind the backs of the chairs beside him. “I’m just glad my dick’s okay. Shrapnel hit the artery and nearly killed me, but missed my joystick by an inch. Thank God.”

  Guano grinned. “Nice.”

  Roadie clapped his hands together. “A’right,” he said, “a’right. Calm down.” He pulled out a tablet, tapping it to light it up. “Okay, so, back to business. Those of you who have damaged ships, hope you weren’t too attached to them, because we’re swapping you out with brand new ones.”

  Groans and complaints all around. Fighter pilots loved their ships and got very weird about them. Guano’s gut ached when she thought of hers, in pieces somewhere.

  “Those of you who lost your ships, well, this is your lucky day. One get out of jail free card, courtesy of the US taxpayers, those morons.” Everyone laughed, even Guano, although being reminded that she’d been shot down hurt. “So. Final kill count for our last engagement: Joker and Shrapnel bagged one, two kills for yours truly—thank you Frost, you’re the best—and…” Roadie held up his hands dramatically. “Three confirmed space-to-space kills for Guano and Flatline.”

  More cheering, wild exultations.

  “No, no, no, you dickheads, quiet up, quiet up!” He held up a hand to silence them. “As you all know, Guano and Flatline crashed their ship like idiots, and Flatline was too fucking stupid to dodge a bullet, so that’s a minus one to them! So we’re even! Two each!”

  Boos rang out.

  “That ain’t how it works,” shouted Guano.

  “Lame,” bellowed Flatline. “Lame, lame!”

  “Shenanigans! Shenanigans!” cried Frost.

  Roadie flicked his wrist and turned away. “Fine, fine, fine. Okay. Okay! Final tally stands for three for Guano and Flatline.” Cheering drowned out whatever he said next. “Holy hell, can you believe it?” Roadie bellowed over the din. “We fought aliens! We fought real-life aliens, motherfuckers, and we killed them!”

  Raucous shouting overwhelmed everything, with Roadie leading it on. “A’right, you know what to do! Get to your ships. We are doing this thing for real! Let’s go get some!”

  Her blood pumping, so full of energy she could burst, it was almost physically painful for Guano to have to wait until everyone else had left. She offered Flatline her hand.

  “You ready to do this?” she asked, grinning like a jackal.

  “You bet.” Flatline pulled himself to his feet, limping as he made his way toward the door. “Let’s go get five. Ace Aircrew Flatline and Guano, coming through.”

  “That’s Guano and Flatline,” she said, helping him walk. “That’s why idiot gunners ride in the back, like luggage, shit you haul around all day, worthless junk you know you should throw out but you’re just too lazy to.”

  Flatline smirked at her. “I knew you missed me,” he said.

  Despite it all, she couldn’t help but smile too. It was good to have him back.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  Senator Pitt did not like this.

  He was not a warrior. He was not a soldier. He’d been on more than enough trips through Z-space to know when exiting it was normal, and when it wasn’t. Seeing the ship come out of the strange, nonlinear, warped unreality that was Z-space was unsettling enough—some found it beautiful, if one could imagine that—but coming out of it in the middle of an alien fleet was profoundly disturbing.

  “Are you still there?” asked President Schuyler. “The line crackled for a moment.”

  “For now,” whispered Senator Pitt, and he tried to summon as much of his strength as he could. “We just exited Z-space. Listen! Listen, the battle’s starting; things are about to get hot. Just remember what I told you and send help. You’ll be well compensated when it comes to election time.”

  “You must think I’m a whore,” said President Schuyler, an amused edge to her tone. “To be bought and used at your pleasure.”

  He prepared the usual platitudes in his head. No, Madam President, of course you’re not. Of course you’re an upstanding woman and a proud President. Strangely, as the first volleys of fire started to ring out all around him, all those platitudes melted away. “Everyone’s a whore,” he spat, still whispering. “Everyone in this world trades something for something else. Sometimes it’s money for dick, sometimes it’s far more subtle, intricate things. And I mean everyone. You, me, each and every one of these muscle-headed saps you send into battle. You think they’re here because they like being shot at? Like watching their friends and coworkers die? They’re here because they’re useless muscle-heads who lacked the acumen to achieve at a college rate. They’re whores of the state, getting fucked in the ass to save us all.

  “So maybe you didn’t suck a dick to get the presidency. Maybe you sucked fifty. God, it wouldn’t be the first time. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you think of your position, I can tell you this: you don’t understand the truth of what’s going on right now. In time, things will be made clear to you—in time—but not right now. You’re just going to have to trust me.” He paused. “And if you don’t trust me, you’re going to have to trust that I have the capability to have you re-elected, or not. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I think you’re bluffing.” President Schuyler’s voice hardened. “You’re a desperate, cornered old man trying to save his skin. You have nothing on me, nothing, and I’m not going to jeopardize the whole planet just to save your wrinkled old ass.”

  “Call Spectre,” he said, laying a massive card on the table. “Call Spectre and ask her if what I’m saying is true.”

  Silence on the other end of the line. Then, “How do you know that name?”

  Now, finally, the shoe was on the other foot. “I know a lot more than you can imagine,” he said. “You should know, if I die out here, Spectre will dump everything she has on you. You won’t be able to get elected to your local school council. Impeachment will be the last of your worries; you’ll be lucky to live out the rest of your life in a prison cell.” He let the threat dangle. “Do you know the United States still practices capital punishment for treason?”

  A long silence, punctuated only by the shouting of the bridge crew—which he tried to shield the microphone from—and the rumbles of incoming weapons fire.

  “Take your time,” said Senator Pitt, dipping his voice in sugar. “Not like we’re being shot at over here or anything.”

  More nothing. Maybe he was actually on hold.

  He tried to catch his son’s eye, but each time he did, the result wounded him. The man’s face was painted with disgust, bitterness, anger…distrust.

  You don’t understand, son… You’re a man, but in some ways, you’ll always be my boy. I’ve kept all the secrets for all these years. But I can’t imagine what you’d think about me if you knew what was really at Ganymede…or what was really at stake in all of this. There’s a reason you’re here, son, and you have a lot to do yet before I fully pass the torch. But you’ll be ready soon. Soon.

  A faint click signaled the end of the hold.

  “This call never happened,” said President Schuyler, and the line went dead.

  Pitt slowly took off the earpiece and st
ared at it. A blinking red light on the side confirmed it: the call had been disconnected.

  That was a good thing, right? She hung up because she was sending help, right?

  Right?

  Chapter Fifty

  Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird

  Hangar Bay

  USS Midway

  Guano’s brand new ship shot out of the hangar bay like a dart, Roadie on one wing and Joker on the other.

  “Alpha wing is away,” said Roadie. “Bravo flight, get ready to launch. Alpha wing, check in. Alpha-1 is go.”

  It felt good to be promoted to Alpha wing, although strange, given that she’d lost a ship. But a 3:1 kill:loss ratio was good, right?

  “Alpha-2 is go,” said Joker.

  “Alpha-3, go,” said Guano, switching on her radar.

  Her screens lit up like a Christmas tree. Red and green and blue everywhere. Red for hostiles, green for friendlies, and blue for decoys. A steady stream of strike craft poured out of the two frigates, and as she watched, two quick flashes of light signaled the arrival of their other two frigates. Gunfire flew across space in wild, jagged streams, the friendly cannon tracers white streaks, the hostile particle weapons a sizzling red.

  “Jesus, what a shit show,” said Joker.

  Roadie turned and Guano turned with him. “The nearest hostile ship is twenty-two kilometers away,” said Roadie. “Lock it in, designation Skunk-1.”